


Scars of Valient Tales

by Jaskiers_BrokenLute



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Caring Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Nightmares, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, no one dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:06:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22997404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaskiers_BrokenLute/pseuds/Jaskiers_BrokenLute
Summary: Jaskier likes Geralt's scars but is ashamed of his own.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 6
Kudos: 368





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Geralt is bit OOC in this but it's hard to write caring Geralt without him being a little OOC so forgive me.

It had become routine that whenever Geralt returned from a contract that left him covered in blood, dirt, monster bits, and general filth: Jaskier would take it upon himself to make sure the witcher was squeaky clean.

At first, Geralt fought it, he could very clearly fo this simple task by himself, and certainly didn't need some bard to scrub behind his ears for him, but Jaskier was having none of it. He said everyone needed to lay back and let someone else take care of them once in a while, especially witchers who spent their days tirelessly fighting monsters.   
Not up arguing, Geralt let Jaskier sit in front of the tub and wash out his hair, arms, and the expanse of his back that he allowed being shown over the edge of the bath. 

Although he would never say it aloud, Geralt had to admit that it wasn't, entirely unpleasant to have someone else do the work while he relaxed in the water. Jaskier had taken to massaging the worn-out muscles in his shoulders, neck, and arms when he decided Geralt needed it. 

When he didn't, Jaskier would explore the witcher's scars. 

That happened quite often now, sometimes he would simply trace them with finger, content to indulge in his fascination. Other days he would ask for the stories behind them or at least what had put it there.  
Geralt usually told the stories, seeing no reason to hold back, especially in his relaxed state and a slight sense of obligation, as if the storied were reward for the massages and freedom of the rotten stench of dead monster in his hair. And, if he could get the bard silent for any amount of time that was always a plus, even if he was very much used to the chatter by now. 

Sometimes hours were spent like this, Jaskier sat behind Geralt and holding onto every would he was spared, clinging to each story and memorizing which words lined up with which scar. The water would be cold, Geralt ready for a real rest, but for some reason, as the bard silently listened and ran his fingers across his skin, he couldn't find it in him to end the moment until he had at least completed his tale. Sometimes he would sit even past that and into the silence, comfortable in each other's presence, happy to listen to their breathing and enjoy the blanket of mutual trust that came with these moments. 

When the spell was broken and Geralt began to pull away, their choreographed retreat began: Jaskier walked from the bathroom and climbed into his own or a shared bed and would wait for Geralt to follow suit before sinking into his sleep. On the nights they shared a bed, Jaskier would sometimes dare to lay his head on Geralt's chest or lay pressed against his side. Geralt put up not fight against Jaskier's actions, allowing him to do as he pleased, silently enjoying the contact. 

Tonight was no different from this routine, Geralt had returned from a drowner nest, soaked and freezing, drenched in water, mud, and dirt from head to toe. Internally he was wishing the time to go by faster until he was in blessed hot water, his bard behind him working the stress of the day out of his muscles in return for a few words of the past. 

"Come on," Jaskier said softly after giving Geralt a once over, putting his notebook and lute down onto the single bed. 

Geralt followed him, thankful for the already drawn and steaming bath. Jaskier seemed to have some sort of magical ability to know exactly which days Geralt would return worse off than before, a talent Geralt was equally impressed and confused by.   
Geralt slumped against the side of the tub, exhausted and freezing after today's contract. Jaskier pulled an upside-down bucket behind him to sit on. 

"How did this happen?" He asked, beginning the process of washing dried mus off the witcher's shoulders and out of his tangled hair. 

"Drowner, pulled me to the bottom a river," He explained in the least amount of words as possible.   
Jaskier hummed in response, concentrated on the task at hand instead of making idle conversation. 

He had made a swift job of removing tall traces of river bed from his friend, now taking interest in a silver, barely-there scar that ran from the base of his neck to the peak of his shoulder. Jaskier layed his head down on Geralt's other shoulder as he ran his finger over the slightly raised skin over and over again as if he were mesmerized by the motion. The weight of his head and warmth of his body was welcome to the witcher, these moments, among others, were ones when he genuinely enjoyed the bard's company without an ounce of annoyance. 

He was set to let Jaskier relax, even to this day surprised by how safe the bard felt around him. It was comforting to both of them, a connection was created in these moments that they would bask in but not talk about later, a silent agreement that these moments stayed in these moments.   
It would later dawn on Geralt that he was allowing Jaskier too close to him, had let him, irreversibly now, and what was even scarier, he cared for him in return, more than he ever thought he'd be able to, to anyone. This realization would only be troubling for a few moments before the bard would interrupt his thoughts, a grin on his face as he spoke about whatever he felt like at that moment, and Geralt would pretend to be annoyed while clinging to the words Jaskier pouted remembering why he allowed himself to care for this human. 

"This one," was all Jaskier said after minutes dedicated to memorizing the scar. 

"A few years ago a thug tried to rob me of the coin I earned on contract in his town, his sword grazed my back when he fell to the ground." He explained, remembering vividly how he felt the sting of a blade ever after he had hit the man over the head with the handle of his sword, too tired to deal with him in any other way. 

"One of your less valiant stories my friend," He responded, his breath hot against the back of Geralt's neck his hair soft on the man's shoulder. 

The silence had begun to take over, both men sinking into it willingly, until was suddenly, strangely curious after the bard. 

"Do you have any scars?" He asked, the question sounding childish leaving his own mouth, but apparently not to Jaskier, who notably stiffened after the words registered.  
His finger halted on its path up and down the scar and he lifted his head from Geralt's shoulder. 

"No," He answered quickly and stood up to leave. Geralt was struck with confusing and an overwhelming sense that he'd done something wrong, but he couldn't understand how. 

He turned around in time to see Jaskier leave the room, most likely to go to an early sleep. Geralt had a rare gnawing at his brain, he felt he had to fix this, although he didn't know what he had done to warrant fixing in the first place, then again he was never good with emotions or words in general. 

He stood up and put his underclothes back on, walking into the room. Jaskier was already curled on his side of the bed, his back facing the witcher.  
Geralt sat down on the bed, making his presence known before venturing out of his area of expertise in attempt to find out what he'd down wrong. 

"Are you okay?" He hated how insincere it sounded, but hoped that Jaskier knew him well enough to be able to tell when he was being genuine. 

"Yes, tired." He responded.  
Geralt didn't believe him for a second, half of him wanted to drop the subject but the side of him that hated seeing Jaskier like this over-ruled all others and he knew he wouldn't get a restful sleep with this eating away at him all night. 

"Did I do something?" He continued. Jaskier sighed and sat up, shifting to sit beside Geralt. 

"No you didn't to anything, I just don't really like to talk about it," He said, leaving Geralt with more questions than answers. 

"What?"

"Scars," He answered, his eyes seeming to take a great interest in his knees instead of meeting Geralt's eyes. 

"Your own scars trouble you." He spoke, trying to piece together the little information Jaskier was offering.  
The bard nodded and pulled his arms closer to his body, seemingly unconsciously. 

After a beat of silence Geralt spoke again,  
"Can I see them?" He wanted to understand why scars could trouble Jaskier so much, he didn't like the bard being this upset and hoped having him open up about it would help, it seemed to be his go-to coping mechanism anyway. 

Seeing him quiet in this context was, worrying, maybe getting him to talk would at least make the moment not feel so off. 

Jaskier stayed silent for a moment, thinking it over. He didn't like thinking of his past, he spent most of his days pretending it didn't happen so he could find some semblance of peace behind his mask. It wasn't all bad days and fake enthusiasm, but it started like that when he first became Jaskier the traveling bard, leaving Julian behind. Showing Geralt would mean accepting that his past was part of him, he couldn't run away from it. He was scared, but he also knew that Geralt wouldn't be like most people, was far from the judging eyes of the world, and it did seem fair, given the circumstances. 

He sat up a bit more and hesitantly pulled his shirt up over his head, the sleeves purposely too tight to roll up far enough.  
He looked down at his arms directly for the first time in months, always being sure to avoid looking, like they simply wouldn't exist if he ignored them. He took one last steadying breath and stretched his arms out in front of him, being more open with Geralt than he's been with anyone.

Geralt's eyes traced up his arms, his stomach doing a strange flip when he saw the expanse of scars that littered his skin from his elbows to his wrists. Some were merely white lines, some raised angry red marks, two scars on either wrist that were deeper than the rest, ones that Geralt hated the second he saw them. 

He reached out and took Jaskier's arm in his hand, using his other to run his fingers along the length of his forearm.

"What caused these?" Geralt asked, hoping against odds that it wasn't what he thought it was.

"I did," He responded, barely loud enough to hear. Geralt lifted his head to meet Jaskier's gaze, his blues wavering with unshed tears. 

The truth sunk into Geralt's understanding slowly, his gaze returning to the self-inflicted scars.   
He felt pain, hurt at the thought of Jaskier being this unhappy, his loud every-enthusiastic friend being this low.  
He couldn't bear to think of his life if Jaskier had succeeded, he couldn't picture his life without the bard at his side, he knew it would happen eventually, but he'd give anything for it not to be like this. 

He looked up carefully as Jaskier cleared his throat, he reached up and wiped the stray tear off Jaskier's cheek, smiling ever so slightly at the way he leaned into the touch. He never wanted to see him cry. 

"Then these scars are more valiant than any of mine," He spoke as softly as he could manage, squeezing Jaskier's hand in his own. The bard laughed softly, a pitiful noise cut off by more tears and quiet noises of sorrow. 

"Doesn't seem valiant to me," He spoke, taking his hand back from Geralt to aggressively wipe the tears off of his cheek. 

"You're still here," Geralt found himself incredibly grateful for that fact, it would be far too quiet without him. 

"I didn't think I would be, certainly didn't want to be." Geralt tightened his jaw at the confession, Jaskier didn't deserve to wish himself dead, Geralt wanted to take away that pain, pull the thought from his mind permanently, kill it like any other monster. 

"What about now?" For once Geralt wasn't afraid of how desperate he sounded, not hiding behind the walls he tried so hard to build. He re-claimed Jaskier's hands and held on, comforting himself with the grounding feeling of having Jaskier here and safe with him. 

"I'm glad I'm alive, with you," He admitted with a small, heavenly smile.   
Geralt loosened his grip but didn't let go, 

"Never do this again, okay?"He sounded terrified, the sound foreign to him. 

"Okay, I haven't in a long time." He answered, glad he was able to tell Geralt instead of hiding it as he had with everyone else. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier has a nightmare following last nights events and Geralt helps him.

Jakier couldn't tell you exactly when it had become an addiction, only that it had. 

It started almost by accident really, he only needed proof that he could feel and could still be okay after the pain was gone. Proof that he could heal when he felt like nothing would. It started small, shallow, almost paper cut like lines that would sting for a moment, barely bleed and be closed by the next morning. 

It was a breath of fresh air in the smoky haze of his life. 

They began to get deeper when he wanted the pain to last longer, needed some sort of feeling to cling to. Worse still when he started to simply deserve it, when it hurt for hours and bled enough to ruin his clothes, his vision would waver and the floor would tremble under his feet, but he always covered it before he would pass out, too afraid to slip into that peaceful sleep that he longed for. 

Years were spent like this, horrible empty days where nothing seemed to fit into place, waking up from the only semblance of happiness he was able to feel these days and wishing he could sleep forever. 

He would hide in the fields of flowers that seemed grey to him and bring the crimson from his wrists, bask in the pain and let himself have control over something. 

He would bleed for a while, lie back and let the light-headedness take over as the flowers flowed around him, so free, allowed to simply sway in the wind and listen to the birds sing. 

He would lie there until his vision was spotted and make the same decision, he made every day; wrap the bandages around his wounds or join the flowers. 

He can remember well the day he decided to join the flowers, his eyes stung with tears and his throat was hoarse from crying, the numbness and over-whelming weight of feeling nothing but resigned lifted and he could only feel anguish.

He sobbed into the ground, screamed and thrashed at nothing as if the monsters he was facing could be fought off. He knew the only way to win this fight was to lose, finally be free. 

The decision was made in his mind before he even brought the blade down on himself, but he wouldn't admit it to himself, would let himself believe it was an accident. 

He cut down, elbow to wrist in long, burning streaks. It hurt more than it ever had, deeper than he had ever gone. The thought was terrifying, but liberating.   
He was choosing this, he had control over this one moment in his life and he could take pride in that.

The other arm was no different, more shallow due to the weakness in his bleeding arm, but still fatal in itself. 

He dropped the dagger and fell back to watch the sky, it was a clear day, the flowers looked so beautiful, yellow against light blue, splashes of white and the sparrow sang a dreadfully mournful song.

He could almost forget that he was in pain. 

He couldn't, however, forget that this was the last time he'd be able to see it. 

Suddenly, he was swallowed by the fear he wanted to fight off, he'd miss this. Everything was horrible and grey and empty, but not the sky, not the flowers. When everything was gone and he was asleep forever, would be be able to see the sky, spotted with flowers, feel the wind so soft on his cheeks as his back layed against the soft bed of the ground. Would he feel anything?

No, no the whole point was to feel again, not to lose the only thing he's ever had. Death would be far too silent, the birds can't be heard when you're so far beneath the ground. You can't see the flowers when you're buried below them. 

No, no he had to see the flowers, they just got their colour back, and it wasn't raining, it wasn't cold, it was, peaceful. He was free, here in this moment he was free. 

He smiled, he could feel the pull of his lips pouring something like relief into his mind. He laughed, and he didn't fight the tears that fell from his eyes to the ground. He was free. 

But it still hurt. The sky was losing it's colour again, No! He looked around, fuck his wrists, they hadn't stopped bleeding, hadn't let up, he was dizzy. No, he can't go now. 

He woke up terrified, eyes wide and breathing loud, his heart beating out of his chest. 

It was dark and there was a weight across his chest. The sky was gone, he couldn't hear the birds singing anymore. 

His heart felt like it had been impaled as his mind tried to reason that this wasn't death, that moment had passed years ago, but the fear was the same now as if was then, when he realized he hadn't brought the bandages this time. 

He tried to sit up but he was being held down, he couldn't get his breathing under control. Breathing, right, he's alive. But he's stuck, and the flowers are gone. 

"Jaskier?" The voice startled him, but the second he recognized the deep, rough tone he lost the fear. 

"Geralt," His voice was pitiful, broken and terrified. 

Geralt sat up, pulling Jaskier with him, he could hear the hammering of his heart and feel the trembling in his hands. 

"You're okay," He said, pulling the bard closer to himself, holding him close trying to cease the shaking in his smaller frame. 

Jaskier felt safe again, he knew this was safe, here in Geralt's arms. He was okay. 

He took a deep breath, it smelled of Geralt, he was nothing but this moment, he was surrounded.   
He could feel his breathing coming back into his control, his hands couldn't shake with the amount of pressure he was using to cling to the back of Geralt's shirt. 

He was back to himself, slowly. He remembered everything, what he'd shown Geralt, how he reacted, how happy he felt in that moment. It made no sense that he felt like he was back in that field, not ready to die, but not ready to live yet. 

"I'm sorry," He whispered into Geralt's chest, his eyes were shut tight against the offending tears trying to break through, he wouldn't let them, he had control. 

"Don't apologize," He responded, rubbing his hand up and down the expanse of Jaskier's back.

He held him like he would break again if he let go.  
He wasn't used to comforting people, but he had to just as he had to breath, needed Jaskier to be okay. It was unexplainable, but unstoppable too. 

He hesitantly let go when Jaskier began to pull away, closing his hands into fists in his lap, his knuckles were white and he could feel his nails biting into the palms of his hands. 

Geralt took both of his hands in his own, easing out the tension and holding on, stopping the pain and replacing it with grounding warmth. 

The gesture spoke louder than Geralt could ever speak, and Jaskier couldn't hold back anymore as he felt the barriars break. 

He opened his eyes and watched Geralt's thumb rub over the back of his hand. 

He was overwhelmed by it all, but in such a good way. Overwhelmed by the feeling of being cared about, like he never had been. The way Geralt looked at him, not hiding behind the walls in his mind, just letting it all show through those beautiful golden eyes. 

Jaskier let himself break down, crumbling down into a sobbing mess, but happier than he has been in years.   
Geralt tightened his grip on Jaskier's hand as he watched the bard fall apart in front of him, he felt helpless, but the feeling passed when Jaskier looked up to him, smiling so sincerely up at him. 

He could do nothing to fight the smile that grew on his own face at the sight. 

This moment was nothing but real, there were no words to describe the absolute care, trust, and love that was filling the room like a heavy smoke.   
No words were needed, simply to connection of their hands and the soft smiles.  
They had each other in that moment, without doubt, without thought, they had each other.


End file.
